Quarantine in Spring
The earth has washed its lovely hands of us. Enough!
so sayeth the world. Knock it off. Sit still and think
hard about all that you have done. Then the planet
pours itself a long cool drink. Except it doesn't.
I'm just anthropomorphizing. In truth, the air
lightens, tremors tremble less, spring flowers blossom,
and, as always, the small rain down can rain without
needing to be transformed into more poetry.
Rain will do what it does: it doesn't have to be
seen by us or dotted with some pink umbrellas
or soaking a young, love-struck couple in a clutch.
We need these things to be: the rain and the touching.
We even need poetry, but first we must stay
inside alone, face facts, and finally come clean.
first published in Lunch Ticket